


Massage Therapy

by OniGil



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Happy, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, HAPPY OT3 YAY, Jealousy, Loud Sex, M/M, Massage, Multi, No War AU, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:24:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OniGil/pseuds/OniGil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want Drift getting all huffy and jealous and demonstrative and overprotective because Ratchet got a really fucking pretty massage therapist."</p>
<p>Drift splurges on a treat for his favorite medic, and gets a little more than he paid for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Massage Therapy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vienn_peridot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/gifts).



> Vienn-Peridot: "I want Drift getting all huffy and jealous and demonstrative and overprotective because Ratchet got a really fucking pretty massage therapist."
> 
> *PREDICTABLE SHIPPER BURSTS THROUGH THE DOOR* AU THE PRETTY MASSAGE THERAPIST IS WING
> 
> I don't think I've written a fic this silly and fun since "On the Courtship of Seekers." Enjoy!

            “Ratchet.”

            Grunt _._

“ _Ratchet_.”

            _Grunt._

“Raaaatchet, are you even _listening_ to me?” And abruptly Ratchet’s full visual field, previously occupied by a tablet filled with receipts for the last delivery of spare parts and what parts of his cluttered desk he could see around it, was full of bright blue optics and white armor and a silver face with an exasperated expression. All of it sideways.

            “Hnn?” Ratchet leaned back in his chair to get a bit of distance, to see Drift leaning precariously half across his desk to get between him and his tablet.

            “I was _saying_ that you’re working too hard.”

            “I work the same every day.”

            “My point exactly. You’re going to burn yourself out. Look, I thought you left the DMF to get a lighter workload.”

            “Correction: I left the DMF so I could come here and fix people who actually need it.”

            Though it had been a wrench going from the most sophisticated medical facilities on Cybertron—hell, the best in this quadrant of the galaxy—to this place: a tiny ramshackle clinic in Rodion’s Dead End, the worst slums on Cybertron. Okay, to tell the truth, the place wasn’t so bad now. Ratchet had never been the most organized of mechs and he would have worked just fine in an environment where he had to dig through piles to find what he was after, but that wouldn’t do for Drift, who had everything in its place in perfect _feng shui_ or something like that. The only place he wasn’t allowed to touch was Ratchet’s desk: hence, one island of clutter in a shockingly neat and tidy clinic.

            “Okay, let me put it like this,” Drift said. “When you work yourself into a breakdown, who’s going to fix _you_?”

            “I guess that’ll be your job,” Ratchet said, tapping the medic’s cross painted on Drift’s arm.

            “Ratchet, come on. One day off. Look, we’ve had _one_ patient this morning, let’s just call it a day and do something fun. You deserve it.”

            Ratchet sighed. The kid was doing the Face again. Ratchet was bad at resisting the Face.

            “All right, kid. What did you have in mind?”

            Drift grinned in triumph, leaned in, and brushed a kiss across his mouth. “It’s a surprise.”

 

* * *

 

            “You’re serious right now, kid?”

            Drift beamed and gave Ratchet’s hand a squeeze, practically giddy as they stared up at the place. Just being in the nice part of town was intoxicating, to him. “Serious as cybercrosis.”

            “This place is ridiculously expensive.”

            “That’s because it’s ridiculously classy. I saved up,” Drift said proudly. He still wasn’t used to having any kind of money: Ratchet paid him generously (out of his own pocket, given that the clinic was free) but years of starving in the Dead End and boosting his brains out was a lot to overcome. He still got a thrill off spending shanix on enough energon to actually satisfy his high-performance engine. Saving up bit by bit until he could afford to spoil Ratchet for a few hours? Way better than a high.

            “How’d you even find out about this place?”

            “I’ve got ears. This is where _your_ crowd goes for some serious pampering.”

            “‘My’ crowd?” Ratchet snorted. Drift shrugged.

            “I looked it up. They say it’s the best. Come on, Ratch, it’s a special treat. After everything you’ve done for me, let me do something for you.”

            Ratchet didn’t resist as Drift pulled him up the steps and through the door. Drift had half expected to find a lot of gaudy sparkle and shine everywhere, but he was pleasantly surprised to find the place spacious and calming. The white-plated mech behind the front desk chirruped “Welcome to the Circle of Light! What can I do for you?”

            Drift didn’t look too closely at the prices listed on the holographic board. He’d already thought about it, planned ahead, and saved up enough to live like the other half for a little while. He skipped over the more extravagant options. “How about a massage for the good doctor here…” He nudged against Ratchet, who grunted his grudging approval. “And a hot oil bath for me?”

            “Of course!” the host chirped, entering some things into his console. “It will be a few minutes. Please, have a seat!”

            They gave their names and settled down to wait. Drift grinned sidelong at Ratchet.

            “Yeah?”

            “Mm,” Ratchet grumbled. “It’s a nice place. You did good, kid.”

            Drift restrained himself from resting his head on Ratchet’s shoulder, though it was a close thing. This was a classy place, and even if he felt giddy as a sparkling in a candy store, he wanted to show he could be good enough. There were a few other mechs waiting around, a few of them eyeing the two with a tinge of disdain for their scuffed plating. So he behaved.

            This was such a good idea! Ratchet already looked more relaxed than usual. Oh, he might scoff when Drift rearranged things in the clinic, but this environment was obviously designed to have a calming effect, and it worked whether Ratchet believed it or not.

            A door across the room slid open with a gentle chime and another white mech stepped out.

            “Ratchet? Drift?”

            “That’s us,” Ratchet said, getting creakily to his feet—yes, a massage would do wonders for him, maybe he’d be in a _really_ good mood later…! The white mech flashed a dazzling smile.

            “My name is Wing and I’ll be helping you today! Right this way, please.”

            Little alarm bells started to go off in Drift’s processor. Uh-oh. Wing was, frankly, devastatingly attractive, with his little folded wings and his striking gold optics and those swishy skirting panels sliding and clinking as he walked and scrap, he was _way_ prettier than Drift. Drift stole a sideways glance at Ratchet. Scrap. Ratchet was looking a little more intently than he’d like.

            _Everything’s fine_ , he told himself. _We’re going to enjoy ourselves. It’s going to be fun. And relaxing. And fine._

            Apparently Wing had a thing for windchimes and little bits of crystal that scattered points of colored light all around the room, across the round pool sunk into the floor—already set and steaming—and the berth-table already covered with a thermal cushion. He showed Drift over to the steps into the pool first and guided him in with steady hands. Drift had enough good grace left not to splash him. He wasn’t _that_ petty. And there was _nothing_ to worry about, the hot oil felt every bit as good as he’d dreamed, and that was almost enough to distract him from s-s-skirting panels _nope_ back to Ratchet, looking at Ratchet, start planning all the things he’d do with Ratchet when they got back home all relaxed.

            He sank up to his chin, watching Ratchet stretch out facedown on the thermal cushion. Wing made a little small talk as he started in on Ratchet’s shoulders, and Drift was pretty sure he heard Ratchet tell him something about the clinic, and Wing smiled again while he said something about how amazing that was, helping people down there for free, and the _worst_ part was—and Drift was good at telling these things—that he was absolutely one-hundred percent sincere. Drift had seen enough fake smiles to know the real deal when he saw it.

            _And Ratchet was smiling back_.

            Okay. Maybe it would be easier to just shut his eyes and let his wiring go slack and do nothing but soak. This was nice. All warm and a little tingly, and definitely nothing he’d ever experienced before. Not even something he’d dreamed in his craziest guttermech fantasies.

            Except Ratchet kept making these little groaning sounds, and _that_ was something Drift preferred to be getting out of him _himself_ and not at the hands of some astonishingly gorgeous jet who looked a little like what Drift might be in his wildest dreams, just _better_.

            He sank down a little further, to optic level, quietly fuming as Wing apparently worked some sort of miracles with his magic fingers.

            _Ratchet’s having a good time, that’s what you wanted, right?_

            He tried to focus a little more on the tinkling windchimes and a little less on Ratchet’s little hums of gratitude as Wing worked from his neck and shoulders all the way down to his feet. Soaking. Lovely fun. So relaxing. Wow.

            He managed it until he heard Ratchet shifting around and Wing asking quietly “May I?” And now Ratchet was sitting up and Wing was massaging his _hands_? That was _Drift’s_ favorite Ratchet-erogenous-zone thank you very much.

            At least it looked like Ratchet had dialed down the sensitivity a few notches. So there.

            “It’s important not to overwork yourself,” Wing said.

            _Yeah, no kidding, that’s only what I’ve been telling him for ages now get your pretty little miracle hands off_ my _lover._

            “I know,” Ratchet said, and he actually sounded a little _sheepish_? Oh sure! Listen to the cute jet! Not your hardworking assistant! You know, the one who’s there for you every single day and cuddled up next to you every single night?!

            And then _thank Primus_ it was done, and even though Drift was really reluctant to haul himself out of the still-warm oil bath and get rubbed down by a fiendishly pretty jet, at least it meant that Wing wasn’t _touching_ Ratchet any more.

            The minute he was dry Drift reached out and looped his arm through Ratchet’s, leaned up on tiptoe, and pressed a warm kiss right on his mouth. “Have fun?” he asked. Ratchet stared at him. Drift just snuggled closer into his side, keeping a firm hold on Ratchet’s hand. He flashed a challenging smile at Wing. “Thanks.”

            It didn’t even dent the jet’s smile. “Come back soon.”

 

* * *

 

            It didn’t take an expert to tell that Drift was sulking. He was clinging to Ratchet like he’d never let go again, and Drift generally wasn’t the clingy type. He gave Ratchet three more possessive kisses before they’d even made it out the front door.

            “Okay, you want to tell me what’s up?” Ratchet asked when they were out on the street. Drift grumbled subvocally. “Wing rub you the wrong way?”

            “I think he was rubbing you in all the right ways,” Drift muttered.

            “Because that’s his job?” Ratchet pointed out. Drift grumbled again.

            “He was awfully pretty.”

            “Yeah? So are you, kid.” Ratchet gave his hand a squeeze.

            “And he’s got that cute little smile.”

            “You’ve got a cute smile too, kid.”

            “And he does those things with his hands.”

            “I like the things _you_ do with your hands just fine,” Ratchet said. He gave Drift a nudge. “And it sounds like you were looking pretty close at him yourself.”

            Drift looked away, heating up in embarrassment.

            “Nothing to be ashamed of. He’s a good-looking mech. I admit I enjoyed seeing the two of you when he was wiping off all that oil…”

            Drift made an indignant squawk. “What!”

            “…he looks a lot like you, and it was nice to watch. But…” He let go of Drift’s hand only so he could wrap an arm around his waist. “No one’s ever gonna replace you, Drift,” he said, utterly serious. “Don’t you worry about that for a second. There’s no one else like you. Not for me.”

            Drift’s smile came back, shy and searching.

            “I had a great time,” Ratchet said. “Didn’t you?”

            “Yeah,” Drift admitted. “Yeah, it was nice.”

          “It was a real treat, spoiling an old wreck like me.” Ratchet gave him a squeeze. “Thanks. You did good, kid.”

 

* * *

 

            It turned out that a relaxed-and-pampered Ratchet was an extremely-fun-in-the-berth Ratchet, and by the time they dropped into recharge, Drift was satisfied that he knew Ratchet’s body and its quirks—and more importantly, what Ratchet liked—a lot better than Wing. By the next day he was ready to let the whole thing pass by into a memory he’d laugh about later.

            They went through their day in a better mood than usual, with less grumbling from Ratchet about aching wires or twitching hands, and Drift had never moved more smoothly in all his life, and their patients came and went and everything was going just _fine_ , and then Drift answered a knock on the door and there he was, like a little shining fragment of a memory that was too good to be true, standing on the doorstep and looking out of place in the grime of the Dead End.

            “What do you want?” Drift demanded. So maybe that wasn’t the normal courtesy he gave to someone at the door, but this was an unprecedented situation!

            Wing, still just as shiny and white and pretty as yesterday, glanced up at the very obvious medic sign over the door, as if to say, _what does_ anyone _want when they show up at a clinic?_ “…a medic? If that’s possible…?”

            “Uh- _huh_ ,” Drift grunted, but there was a _code_ surrounding these things, and no matter how badly he wanted to lock the door and pretend this was a bad dream (or worse, a _good_ one), they never turned anyone away from their clinic. That didn’t mean he had to be extra polite. He jerked his thumb at one of the recharge slabs. “I’ll get him.”

            He did _not_ pay any attention to the gentle clink of skirting panels as Wing sat. Nope. He was already poking his head into the storage room.

            “Ratchet. Someone here for you.”

            “Hm?”

            “It’s Wing.”

            “Oh.” Ratchet looked up from the crate he was rifling through. “Really? What does he want?”

            Drift shrugged. “A medic. Apparently.”

            “Hrm.” Ratchet dusted off his hands and strode past Drift. He was all business as he asked, “What’s the problem?”

            Wing’s optics flickered with embarrassment as he folded out his left wing. Drift didn’t know much about fliers but he’d been here long enough to notice the crumpling along a joint. Ratchet’s hands were far gentler than his brisk voice as he asked some of the standard questions, and Wing answered sheepishly.

            “Shouldn’t be too hard to fix,” Ratchet said, directing Wing to lean forward slightly to give him a better angle to work. “This doesn’t seem like your kind of neighborhood.”

            “Oh, I can take care of myself,” Wing chirped with that smile. Drift scoffed. But it was a very pretty smile.

            “What I meant was, you’ve got to have a medic closer than this. Isn’t this out of your way?”

            “Um…” Wing flinched as Ratchet popped out a dent. He looked over his shoulder, shamefaced. “Yes. I… I just wanted to see you again.” He glanced shyly at Drift. “Both of you.”

            Drift’s face heated up unexpectedly. _Woah_ there. Wing was even cuter doing that little sidelong smile under the ridge of his helm. He noticed Ratchet looking between the two of them. If he didn’t know better he’d call that expression _crafty_.

            Then Ratchet was back to his usual self, giving the wing a gentle tug to straighten it out more. “You shouldn’t have come.”

            Wing shot him a stricken look, losing control over his EM field just long enough for Drift to pick up confusion and despair. “I…?”

            “Not on that wing. You shouldn’t be flying around with it like this.”

            “I… oh. Oh,” Wing said, looking suddenly relieved. “I didn’t fly. I walked.”

            “Right. Well, that’s patched up, but you should get some energon to help your self-repair.”

            “I… all right.” Wing stood up slowly, flexing his wing carefully before folding it away. “I’ll… do that. It was nice. Seeing you. Again.”

            Drift almost felt sorry for him. Double-extra cute: take him out of his familiar setting and he’s awkward as a lovestruck sparkling!

            But as Wing turned to go, Ratchet stopped him. “Wait. A mech like you shouldn’t be walking around here alone. We’d better go with you.”

            Drift choked. “Wha—?!” Ratchet tipped him a wink. Drift stammered to a halt. _Smooth old scrapheap!_

            “That’s really not necessary,” Wing said, even as his subvocs and big pleading optics said the opposite. “I’d hate to pull you away from your work.”

            “Where’s the harm in taking a few hours off?” Ratchet said. Drift snorted. Hypocrite. “Only yesterday Drift here was telling me I work too much.”

            “What you do is admirable, but you should always be sure to take care of yourself,” Wing said, taking the diplomatic route.

            “Good! It’s settled.” Ratchet jerked his head meaningfully at Drift. “Sooner we go, sooner I get back to my admirable work.”

 

* * *

 

            And all in all, it worked out nicely: Ratchet got a break, and got to have decent energon with nice mixed additives, and the company made it even nicer, a pretty young white-and-red bot on each side, nice and symmetrical. Wing got the energon he needed, and Drift spent a little less energy on being jealous and a little more checking Wing out.

            “Sweet tooth?” Ratchet observed as Wing mixed up more additives in his drink.

            Wing shrugged and grinned. “Probably more than I should.”

            “It suits you,” Drift said, dusting a little more into Wing’s cube. Ratchet gave him a knowing look. Wing didn’t notice—he was giving Drift a shy smile of his own.

            “I know too much is bad for you,” Wing said. “But I can’t help it.”

            “Guess you’ll just have to come back to us if it comes to that,” Drift said. Ratchet raised his optic ridges. Us? That was promising. “For a checkup, I mean. Everyone likes something sweet once in a while.”

            Ratchet basked in the shameless flirting and finished off his drink feeling pretty good about the whole thing. It was always nice to lay some groundwork.

 

* * *

 

            Neither of them was really surprised when in the afternoon a few days later Wing turned up at their door again. And if either of them thought it was suspicious that he showed up when the clinic was empty, they weren’t about to complain.

            “I never really thanked you for dinner the other night,” Wing said, swinging his feet a little as he sat on the edge of Ratchet’s desk in the office-cum-apartment in the back of the clinic. “Really, you’ve done so much for me. Fixing my wing…”

            “…was part of the job,” Ratchet said. “It was nothing. Consider it a thank-you for that massage.”

            “But that was just _my_ job,” Wing said. “At least I was paid. You never asked for anything for helping me.”

            “That’s what we do here.” Ratchet glanced over at Drift. “But if it really bothers you, there is one thing. You’ve obviously got a good knowledge of the Cybertronian body. That could come in handy around here. Why don’t you show Drift some of your tricks? He never got one of your massages.”

            “Wha… really?” Drift protested weakly, but Wing beamed.

            “I can do that! I’m sure it will be useful around here.”

            Drift didn’t resist too violently as Wing practically shoved him down on his stomach on the berth. And he was justly rewarded: it turned out that Ratchet had been making all those pleased noises for a reason, and Wing really _could_ work miracles with his hands. Drift lay in a blissful stupor while Wing talked quietly, giving pointers on how to make tense cables relax and how to loosen armor packed tight to the frame. He was actually listening. Honest. He had a process running to divert all of Wing’s tips straight into a memory file that he could access later. But for the most part he just lay there and enjoyed. And… tried not to concentrate too hard on the heat building between his legs. No _wonder_ he and Ratchet had had such a good night.

            “Got all that?” Wing chirped after a while.

            “Hmm?” Drift hummed muzzily. “Oh. Yeah. Got it. Thanks.”

            “Glad I could help!” Wing said. He checked his chronometer. “Oh… it’s late. I should let you two have some peace and quiet… I’m sure it’s another busy day for you tomorrow.”

            He stood up, slowly, almost reluctantly. Ratchet glanced at Drift, who sat up—he felt all loose and relaxed and not a bit tired. He returned the look.

            “Hey,” Ratchet said, stopping Wing before he hit the door into the main clinic. “It’s not safe for you around here at this hour. You should stay with us tonight instead.”

            Wing froze, his mouth forming a little “o” of surprise, because Ratchet’s EM field was sending out some serious signals. He hesitated, looking at Drift. Drift tilted his head and looked at Ratchet.

            “Besides,” Ratchet went on, “I think these old hands of mine could use another massage.”

            Drift quietly added his own not-very-subtle signal into the weird mix of their EM fields. Wing _shivered_.

            “I think I can manage that,” he whispered.

            Ratchet sat on the berth and patted his thigh. Wing hesitated for another moment before throwing it to the winds and sitting on his lap. He picked up one of Ratchet’s hands and ran his thumbs over hard-used seams, just like he’d done back at his place. Except this time he raised Ratchet’s hand to his mouth and sucked on his fingertips, one at a time. He glanced at Drift sidelong, his gold optics warm and suggestive. He unfolded his wings and twitched them invitingly. Drift took the invitation and stepped up behind him, running his hands over the long white struts.

            Wing let Ratchet’s fingers slide from his mouth, digging his thumb into a tense spot in the palm. “The key is to find where there’s tension in the lines and jus…t… ohh…”

            He moaned shakily, his wings trembling under Drift’s hands.

            “He’s a fast learner,” Ratchet said, giving Drift an affectionate smile. Wing rocked on his lap, sucking much more suggestively on Ratchet’s fingers now, his optics dim and his wings fluttering. Apparently they were every bit as sensitive erogenous zones as Ratchet’s hands, when his sensory input was dialed up—as it was now. He bit back a groan, shifting under Wing, and half unconsciously rubbed their panels together.

            And Wing, lovely Wing, went to his knees smoothly, his hands parting Ratchet’s thighs as he eased his gentle way between them. He pressed a kiss to Ratchet’s heated panel, his fingers sliding into vulnerable spots and teasing his circuitry. Ratchet’s engine rumbled in contentment as he eased back and opened his panel. Wing’s mouth pressed against his spike cover, seeking. The warm promise of Wing’s lips coaxed his spike to pressurize, sliding into view. Wing’s mouth fluttered down the length of it, then back up, lips barely brushing against it. Then his tongue flicked out to lap at the tip. Ratchet’s hand settled on Wing’s helm, sliding over his audial fins, and Wing lavished attention on him, demure little licks that teased and stimulated and really revved him up. Ratchet looked up at Drift and couldn’t help but smile. Drift looked partly jealous, partly aroused.

            Ratchet opened his legs wider and Drift wasted no time wedging himself in next to Wing. Their shoulders slid easily as he leaned in to get his tongue on Ratchet’s spike too, and the two of them made it into a coordinated effort, using only their mouths. Wing sealed his lips over the tip while Drift’s tongue lapped at the base. Wing slid his mouth down in a smooth bob of his head, taking Ratchet’s spike with ease, then drew off so that Drift could lick up the underside. It was intoxicating, having two beautiful young mechs attending to him like this old heap was worth it. Ratchet stroked Drift’s finials gratefully.

            Drift and Wing got a little sidetracked as their lips found each other, sliding off of Ratchet’s spike, their tongues tangling as one of them—Wing, only Wing could make a sound like that—moaned blissfully. Drift tipped Wing backwards until the jet lay on his back, his hips in Drift’s hands.

            “Time to teach you some of _my_ tricks,” he said. He straddled one of Wing’s thighs, wrapping the jet’s other leg around his waist, and teased until Wing opened his panel with a needy moan, exposing his valve. Drift did the same, and rocked forward, grinding against him. Ratchet enjoyed the show they made. _Quite_ the show, rubbing their valves together until bright lubricant started to drip onto their thighs. Then Ratchet reached out to tweak Drift’s finial.

            “Hey. Don’t forget about me, kid.”

            The two younger bots broke apart, shivering; Drift crawled onto Ratchet’s lap, while Wing climbed onto the berth at his side. Ratchet reached out for him and Wing grabbed his hand, wrapping his lips again around his fingers.

            Ratchet laughed. “You got a fixation with my hands or something, kid?”

            “ _I’m_ kid,” Drift pouted. Ratchet kissed him.

            “Sorry, kid. You’re absolutely right. Let me make it up to you.” He pulled Drift forward. “You get the driver’s seat.”

            Drift sank down happily onto Ratchet’s spike. His optics flickered and he moaned in delight. He braced his hands on Ratchet’s shoulders and started to ride smoothly up and down, his face slack and blissful.

            Ratchet gave Wing a sly grin. “And you, let me show you what my hands can _really_ do.”

            Wing reluctantly relinquished Ratchet’s fingers, but he only had a moment to frown about it before they slid between his slippery thighs and dipped into his hot valve. Wing gasped, his knees sliding further apart; he, too, braced himself on Ratchet, rocking his hips freely as Ratchet’s middle fingers moved within him, seeking all the most sensitive spots with his extensive medical knowledge, and teasing his external node with his thumb.

            Ratchet was fervently glad he was an experienced multitasker, because he didn’t want to miss a moment of having the two sweet little bots moaning and writhing for him. _I’ve still got it_ , he thought with satisfaction: his wild days in the DMF weren’t _that_ far behind him.

            Wing bent down further, moaning unashamedly, easing his head between them. When Drift gasped and his valve calipers tightened suddenly around Ratchet’s spike, Ratchet realized Wing had gotten his talented mouth on Drift’s thus-far neglected spike. Wow. The little jet was flexible, and he moved well with Drift’s increasingly wild riding. Ratchet rewarded him by seeking deeper sensory nodes at this new angle, and was rewarded in turn by muffled hungry moans and desperately rocking hips.

            Poor Drift, beset from two sides, was the first to tense up and wail out his overload, his valve tight and unbearably hot around Ratchet’s spike. Wing swallowed his transfluid unfailingly, without even pulling back. The sight and feel of his lover’s overload brought Ratchet that much closer to his own: he wasn’t a young bot by any means, and his spike had gotten a lot of attention, first from mouths and now from Drift’s valve. He renewed his efforts on Wing’s valve, triggering sensitive node clusters until Wing drew his head off of Drift’s spike and screamed, arching into a lovely curve as he overloaded hard. And that was apparently Ratchet’s cue: his spike twitched up into Drift, spilling out inside him.

            _Still got it_ , Ratchet thought again as Drift slipped sideways and sprawled on the berth, while on his other side Wing did the same, his thighs shining with valve lubricant. Ratchet clucked disapprovingly.

            “Looks like I made a mess,” he said. Drift, who knew this routine, gave a breathless laugh and struggled up onto his elbows for a better view as Ratchet bent over. “I’d better clean up.”

            Wing wasn’t at all prepared for Ratchet’s tongue sliding over his thighs, working his way up to the valve. He had to be _the_ most vocal mech either of them had heard in the berth. Not that they were complaining: his little gasps and helpless moans went straight to Drift’s valve. If he had to wait his turn for Ratchet’s legendary mouth, at least Wing’s happy noises were keeping him revved up. With the last shades of jealousy wiped out, Drift just lay back and enjoyed the show, fingers working lazily in his own valve. Under Ratchet’s patient tongue, Wing shook and shivered and came apart again with the sweetest noises of pleasure. Ratchet straightened up, licking his lips obscenely as he grinned at Drift.

            “You’re next, kid.”

            Drift purred in delight and shut off his optics as Ratchet’s tongue lapped at him. After a few amazing minutes, lithe arms wrapped around him from behind, pulling him against a warm frame. He glanced over his shoulder to find Wing lazily snuggling him, watching Ratchet’s ministrations intently. The jet’s clever hands moved over Drift’s front, teasing sensitive spots. Drift squirmed at the double-teaming ( _again_ ) and felt, more than heard, Ratchet laugh. The vibrations in his valve were just what Drift needed. He squeezed his thighs hard around Ratchet’s head, arching against Wing’s hands.

            When Drift was finished overloading and Ratchet was satisfied that he’d “cleaned up” thoroughly, three sets of armor ticked as they cooled. Wing stayed glued to Drift’s back, nuzzling between his shoulders; Ratchet tugged Drift close to his chest and threw an arm over them both, his hand resting just between Wing’s wings.

            “Thanks for staying,” Ratchet said.

            “Mm, thank you for inviting me,” Wing murmured sleepily into the back of Drift’s neck.

            “Anytime,” Drift muttered, basking in the warmth of the two bodies on either side. “Seriously.”

            Ratchet smiled to himself. Mission accomplished.


End file.
